by Ruth Skrine
Briony will always be noticed. How different we are, as different as Henry and Jake Farley. Like Henry, my feelings fester inside.
The train starts to move and we emerge into the light. Relieved chatter fills the silence while I gaze at my dishevelled reflection in the window, urging the train to speed along the track.
A contrary force seems determined to keep me from my sister’s bed. When I reach the hospital the man at the desk has to ring three different wards before he discovers where she is. I wait for the lift but it doesn’t come so I run up the stairs. At last I find her, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
She doesn’t turn her head, just flicks her eyes as I pull up a chair. I take the hand that is lying on the bedclothes, cold and inert.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she says.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She continues to stare upwards, her face contorted. ‘It’s a punishment for not wanting it.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘It’s what I know. If I had wanted it properly from the beginning it would have been all right.’
‘But you did want it. I‘m sure you always wanted it. The money was difficult, that was all.’
Tears run down her cheeks. She makes no move to wipe them away. ‘But don’t you see?’ Throwing her head from side to side on the pillow, she holds the rest of her body rigid under the blanket, as if any movement will threaten the baby further. ‘It will be easier if the baby doesn’t live. I will be free to go back to work. Then the children won’t have to leave their schools.’ Her voice is disconnected from her tears and her head from her body. She is in pieces. Her hand snatches out of mine and moves to her stomach as if by its own volition.
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I was going to have an abortion. The child knows it was not loved enough... I’m not fit to live.’ Now she does turn towards me with a despairing look.
I feel as impotent as when she had the furies as a child but there is no garden. I cannot escape for there is no one else to look after her.
Taking her hand again I rub it between my own. ‘You can’t hurt people by your thoughts.’ Anxiety hollows my body as I speak with a confidence I don’t feel. There must be more for me to say, some way to make contact with her. ‘At Christmas it was obvious that deep inside you wanted to keep it. That was what made the decision so difficult.’
She refuses to be comforted. ‘I could have killed it.’
I want to shake her, she makes me feel so useless. I am sorry for her, desperately sorry, but she has to snap out of these morbid thoughts or she will drive herself round the bend.
‘Rubbish.’ I speak sharply. ‘Of course you had to consider the options. Things were difficult for you and Paul, and you had to think of the other children. When you decided to go on with the pregnancy, in spite of the difficulties, it showed just how much you did want the baby.’
I get up and walk to the window. The view is of a yard at the back of the hospital. A van is parked with the back doors open while two men load bags of rubbish inside. Beyond the courtyard there is a tall chimney. That must be the incinerator where the waste is burned. I turn back to look at my sister. She is lying in exactly the same position. I am reminded of the newspaper report of Jake Farley at his trial. He had stood frozen in the dock, quite motionless until he fell down. I walk slowly back to the bed and look down at her.
‘Mummy wouldn’t want you to think like this. Don’t you remember how she would tell us not to look back?’
Now she does move to pull herself up onto one elbow and look me full in the face at last. ‘You don’t have all the memories, you know.’
Inwardly, I smile. Old antagonisms can rouse her while all my sympathy and logic cannot.
‘Well then, hang on to the ones you have. All you can do to help the baby now is to stay quiet and relax.’
‘I ought to be at home. Paul can’t manage the children on his own.’
‘I’ll go and take over; then he can come and visit you.’
‘But if I’m not out by Monday when he has to go to work…’
‘I’ll stay till you get home.’ What am I saying? I really don’t want to miss any more school. Although Jim was very understanding the previous term, I can’t let him think I am a wimp. But this is my sister.
As soon as I reach the house, Paul leaves for the hospital. When he comes home, quite late in the evening, he tells me the bleeding has stopped, but Briony has to stay in till Monday, to have a scan.
‘Do you think the baby will be all right?’ Julie asks, her eyes darting from Paul’s face to mine over the supper table. He says nothing, so I try to answer her.
‘I expect it will, but one can never be quite certain about these things.’ She seems so young. Her grey eyes are no longer inquisitive but uncertain, pleading almost.
‘Mummy will be very upset if it dies,’ she says.
‘Of course it won’t die. ’ Paul’s drawn face belies his words.
I get up to fetch the jelly that Julie and I made together while he was at the hospital. She follows me into the kitchen as if afraid to leave my side. I give her the ice cream to carry and suggest a game of racing demon later.
After supper Paul and Harry watch a football match on television while Julie and I do the dishes before playing cards.
‘Do you think it will be a girl or a boy?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I want a sister.’
‘What would you like to call her, if it’s a little girl?’
‘I like Daphne but they are thinking of calling it after you – if it’s a girl. I heard them talking one night.’
So Briony does care for me a bit, and my niece listens and overhears things that are not meant for her, just as I had done. ‘Wilhelmina is a family name. It’s usually shortened to Mina, with an “i”, but for some reason my father always spelt it with two “ees”.’
‘He was my grandfather, wasn’t he? He died when Mummy was very little. He wasn’t Great Granny’s son though, was he?’
‘She was the other side. You’re getting to know some of our family history.’
‘It interests me. We’ve been learning about genealogy at school.’
‘That’s great. I’ve just been reading some family diaries. Two of our ancestors wrote down their memories. There is one very old record…’
‘I keep a diary,’ she butts in, ‘but it’s secret.’
‘All good diaries are secret.’ I think of the hole in the cellar that held my own diary as well as the tin box that had lain there for so long. I had been planning to destroy that intimate record once I reached the end. Now I realise that, although Julie isn’t yet old enough to hear his story, she has a right to read it one day.
‘I’d like to see what my ancestors wrote,’ she says.
‘I’ll make sure they are kept safe for you. Now, tell me, what’s going on at school?’
Julie’s face lights up. ‘I’m acting in a play. Some of the sixth form have written the script. It’s all about a family that was evacuated during the war. I play the part of the eldest girl.’
‘You have to look after the others?’
‘I suppose so, but I get to know some country children and one of my brothers is knocked down by a horse. I won’t tell you what happens or I’ll spoil it for you when you come to see it. You will come, won’t you?’
I assure her that nothing will keep me away. When I go up to say goodnight she looks so vulnerable lying with the white sheet drawn up under her chin. Her face is more rounded than Briony’s, but she has the thin Smedley mouth, and a few freckles on her nose. She holds out her arms as she might have done years ago. I hug her to me.
‘Daddy doesn’t believe in God,’ she whispers in my ear, ‘but I’ll pray for the baby.’
‘I will too.’ I can’t let my own lack of faith undermine what comfort she can find.
***
When Briony comes hom
e she spends most of the time lying on her bed with a novel. She has been told that the baby will probably be all right but she has to take it easy. Her languor is interrupted by sharp bouts of energy when she clears out cupboards and rearranges the furniture. At these times my presence seems superfluous but whenever I suggest leaving she becomes irritable. When it is time to prepare a meal she flops down as if to demonstrate that she must have help. My annoyance alternates with the pleasure of being genuinely useful.
‘I really must go on Sunday,’ I say at last. ‘Jim will be tearing his hair.’ We are standing in her bedroom looking at some new baby clothes. She got rid of those she had for Julie and Harry many years before.
‘I suppose you do have a life of your own,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I forget. I’m sorry I’ve been such a grouch.’
I have never known Briony apologise before and I don’t know what to say. I give her a hug and go upstairs to pack my things.
It is not till I am on the train that I remember our conversation in the hospital. It seems to have been a turning point for her. She has said no more about feeling guilty. I hope her black mood is behind her, but I feel like a hypocrite. My insistence that she could not have harmed her baby by her thoughts had been logical. Yet my own thoughts are sometimes just as crazy. I am not only afraid that I have harmed those I love. I am also terrified that if I let myself remember too much my world will crash about my head.
I look out of the window. The train is racing through the countryside. Wispy lines of cloud stretch out above the horizon, fading into nothing at the ends. The railway lines and fences at the edges of the fields race by, interrupted by staccato bridges. The fields beyond shift the direction of their movement depending on the speed of the train, going one way when we pass slowly and another as the train picks up speed.
I think of Quentin waiting for my return and hope he will be in a better mood when I get home. One good thing has come out of my forced absence: Julie seems to like me now. If I am never able to have children of my own, at least I can be her friend.
Chapter 14
Quentin meets me at the station and follows me into the house with an air of expectancy. As I enter the drawing room I gasp and try to take in the changes. Turning slowly I see the newly painted walls and the pieces of furniture filling the gaps left by those that have gone for auction. Quentin explains that Susan has lent me the bureau and small tables until the house is sold, and that she also helped with the painting.
As he speaks she appears through the doorway. I am filled with gratitude and fling an arm round each of them in a joint embrace. Their unexpected care fills the house with warmth. Supported by their kindness I relax, aware for the first time how much of my energy has been sapped by Briony’s demands. Sleep claims me within minutes of climbing into bed.
Back at school I am given a warm welcome. While I was away Jim took my class whenever he could fit it in with his administrative duties. When he was too busy my children had been split between the other teachers. Although I have only been away for two weeks, Jim tells me that some of them have fallen behind in maths. I offer to stay on at the end of the day to give them some coaching – whenever their parents agree.
My colleagues are genuinely sympathetic to my sister’s plight. Tracy turns pale as I describe her stay in hospital. If I had realised she was pregnant again I would have toned down the drama. My pleasure at being the centre of attention is only marred when Mrs Hendry pipes up, ‘You had a phone call from that Mrs Wilson. She was very keen to speak to you.’
‘Who?’
A hint of malice seeps into her voice. ‘Jane’s carer. They have been expecting you to phone. Apparently she’s very upset.’
In the heat of Briony’s troubles I have forgotten her.
‘I did explain,’ Mrs Hendry adds. ‘I said you would be in touch as soon as you got back from London.’
The first spare moment in my busy day doesn’t arrive till I get home. I dial the number. Jane is already in bed and Mrs Wilson doesn’t want to disturb her. She tells me the child had to give evidence at the police station while I was away, and although it was all done in a private room and recorded on video for use in the court later, it had still been an ordeal. They had hoped I might have gone with her.
My fingers tighten round the receiver as I try to make amends by asking if she can come to tea on Saturday. That will not be possible as they have planned to take her to the seaside for the weekend. ‘Perhaps it will be best to wait for the holidays,’ Mrs Wilson says. ‘That would give her something to look forward to and you would have more time.’
My guilt is tinged with relief. Too many concerns are fighting for my attention. Briony has suffered no further bleeding, and says she is coping, but I still worry about her. The clean drawing room makes the rest of the house look even shabbier than it was before. The remaining pages of Henry’s diary wait in the tin box. As the week wears on I decide I need something to bolster my resolve before tackling them again. My hair has lost its lustre since my stay in London and straggles on my shoulders. On the spur of the moment I make an appointment to have it cut.
The hairdresser snips diligently as I watch my profile changing in the mirror. The chunks of hair on the floor are curlier than they ever were on my head. The snippets inside my collar make me itch. I have never worn my hair as short as this and when she has finished I look up again with amazement. I have been expecting a school-ma’am look. Instead, the shape that has emerged makes me look younger. The girls cluster round to appreciate the new me.
At home Quentin says the style makes me look truly beautiful. With his words sounding in my ears I sit down at my window to read. The next entry was written four months after the first:
May 1805
I have come here again but there is no sign of Emily. My father told me to visit our old house while I am here in the village with my grandmother. He says it has to be my decision what to do with it. I wish he would not leave it all to me. I see him so seldom and I cannot explain that I do not want all that responsibility.
I shift in my chair. He was faced with exactly the same responsibility of a family house as I am at the moment, but he was only seventeen. That was so unfair, although boys did grow up very quickly back then, some going away to sea at an even younger age. All the same it was wrong to put so much onto his young shoulders.
The valley is a bittersweet place for me. I love the river and the trees, and old William, who still looks after the dogs, but I am haunted by Aunt and my wicked thoughts about her. If I could lie with Emily’s arms around me I would feel cleansed and whole. Alas, she is not here.
The house is so damp it will have to be pulled down. We cannot do that while Maria is still alive. She served Aunt loyally and I could not turn her out, especially now she is so ill. William and the women on the estate do what they can. I have left some money and told them to move her bed into the downstairs room where there is a log fire and they can keep her warmer.
Yesterday, when I visited her, I thought she rambled. She seized my hand and said, ‘Master, you should know. The wedding went ahead.’
I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew of no wedding. She mumbled, 'Emily and young Farley, who helps at the forge.’
Farley, it can’t be. Henry’s Emily married someone called Farley? I press my hands over my eyes praying that I am wrong. My mind must have created the name of the murderer out of another set of letters. When I look back, surely they will be arranged differently. But they are not. The bare branches of my tree show no signs of spring. This bleak winter will never end and until it does I am trapped – in the house, in the past and with my fears. I don’t want to read any more but, as I am drawn back to the brittle sheets and their oppressive secrets, there is no way I can escape my destiny.
I pulled my hand away from Maria’s shrivelled fingers. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, woman,’ I said.
She looked at me very clear-eyed. ‘I think you do. It was a good wedding, a
t the chapel, and she didn’t show much.’
I didn’t understand. She started to cough and I had to get one of the women to come and assist her. She seized my hand as if she had not finished what she wanted to say, and when she had recovered enough she went on, ‘The baby isn’t due till June. Farley will make a good father.’
I left Maria as soon as I could, and came here to our place once more. I couldn’t believe my love had forsaken me so soon. I suppose it is a good marriage for her. The man can run the forge when Emily’s father grows too old for the hard work at the furnace. I had wanted to love her in the spring, to lie among the primroses, and in the heat of the summer. Just one short week was all we had.
I know my picture of her waiting to greet me as I returned from tramping the fields with my gun, or riding with the hunt, is but a flight of fancy. She could never have been the lady of my house, but yet I could have seen her somehow. Grandmother does not confine me as Aunt used to do. I could have ranged the woods with her.
When I choose a lady for my bride I will be grateful to Emily for what she has taught me about love and the ways of women. Yet I hate to think of her in the arms of another when she is hardly out of mine. I do not understand why she could not have forgiven me for missing our last night and waited for me to come again.
She is going to have a baby. She is a human girl after all, not a sprite from another world. I had thought she was different, we were so happy, but now she is a fallen woman and I am forsaken.
I shall bury this again. Maybe our story, cut off so suddenly, is not quite over. Perhaps one day you will come here, Emily, and find these words to soften your heart and you will be filled with kind feelings and remorse at the way you treated me. I shall never forget you.
